How Much
by Crazy Cherries
Summary: Most days she just wanted to die. Today is one of them.


**How Much**

_Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing._

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Eponine huddles in the corner of the street, trying to light her cigarette, longing for just a bit of warmth. Longing for that bitter burning feeling of warm lungs. Her ripped coat and gloves offer little protection against the unforgiving wind. Her trademark cap, placed firmly on her head, kept the snow out of her hair but it was still so cold that the tips of her fingers and lips were turning blue. How her father expected her to get any business in this kind of weather was beyond her.

After a few more attempts, she gives up on ever lighting her last cigarette and shoves it deep into her pocket along with her useless lighter. Slowly she walks up to the curb and looks both ways, seeing nothing but darkness and swirling white snow. How she had loved it when she was younger; before quickly crossing the street. Her heels clicking on the pavement as she ducks into an abandoned alley, hoping that it would block the worst of the wind from her fragile frame.

Slowly, she makes her way back home, hoping against hope to find someone she can sell to. She hates selling herself. She hates that she's been deprived of her life. The moment she turned eighteen, she was thrust into the arms of faceless men, expected to do more than just pickpocket for her bastard father who was probably drinking away all the money 'Zel and Gav made for him today.

Eponine lets out a frustrated scream and stomps her feet, a childish thing to do, she knows, but it has been so long since she was a child and her childhood had been cut short early, she deserves the opportunity to vent out her frustrations.

Most days she just wanted to die.

Today is one of them.

"Can't you just let it end?" She calls up to the heavens, tilting her face towards the sky and rocking back on her heels as far back as she can go without tipping over when she hears the roar of an engine in this dark, quite street. With a smile she calls up a, "Thank you," before turning around and waiting for the right moment.

As the car turns the corner, Eponine calmly steps off the curb and opens her arms wide as if, waiting, expecting a hug from the oncoming car.

She closes her eyes and braces for the impact, because although she wants to die, her body is a fighter. Years of pain and abuse has taught it to fight and it will not give up now.

Still, there is not much it can do against a car going forty miles an hour.

Her coat is open now and she shivers as the snow lands in places her thin, threadbare coat had once covered. The driver can probably see her ripped fishnet stockings, her red tank top that is not at all suitable for this freezing temperature. Fleetingly, she wonders if she looks scared or determined, she wonders if the driver is someone she knows, she wonders if she's ruining their life by doing this. She hopes not.

Eponine does not get hit by the car. Instead, the stupid asshole inside of it manages to swerve around her and she curses whoever it is a thousand times before turning around because she hears the breaks protest and the car door thump close. Great, a good Samaritan. Just what she needs.

When she sees the man walking towards her, she takes a step back, almost runs and lets out a few more choice swears.

"Eponine," he says in his admonishing tone, but she can tell that it is tinged with shock. He did not expect to see her out here, in front of his car at three thirty-five in the morning, "What exactly are you doing?"

She shrugs and tries not to look at him. She can feel his eyes boring into her and she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and stares at the swirling snow clearly shown in his headlights, "Trying to die," she replies with a biting edge, "What the fuck does it look like?"

"Why?" The word is choked out and he takes a step towards her as she takes another one back. She doesn't expect the ice patch to be there, but when she slips, he darts forward and catches her, "You're freezing!" He exclaims, and starts pulling her towards his car.

"Well, obviously, I've been standing out here talking to you, haven't I?"

She doesn't know what it is but something about Enjolras brings out the worst in her.

He doesn't reply, instead he sits her down in the passenger seat and turns the vents to her, putting the heat on full blast. He starts driving and she tries not to show him any weakness. Tries not to shiver as she bites down on her lip to prevent her teeth from chattering.

It takes him all of two minutes to pull into an abandoned parking lot, put the car in park and turn on the overhead lights before turning to face her. He takes his time, eyeing her disheveled state, his blue eyes calculating as the rest on her frail form.

She expects him to say something about her pale face, blue lips, the dark circles under her eyes maybe, or perhaps about the bruises that are around her neck, or the bruises that can be seen through the holes in her stockings.

He doesn't comment on any of that, instead his eyes meet hers, he'd always been big on eye contact, and he says, "I haven't seen you at the Musain, lately."

She's surprised at the statement but lets out a bitter laugh and answers him even though she knows it's not a question he's asking, "I've been busy."

His eyes roam her body once more, "Yes I can see that."

This offends her, "Do you think I want to be a whore? Do you think I want to parade around in freezing weather, trying to sell love to random men? Do you think I want to go to the clinic and wait to see if I've gotten any STD's from those men? I DON'T." By the end she's screaming and, as embarrassing as it is, crying. She tries to open the door and get out but he grabs her wrist and pulls her towards him.

"How much?" He asks, with a serious face, his hand still an iron-clad grip on her arm.

"What?" She asks, confused, not understanding his question.

He pulls out his wallet, "How much do you charge an hour, Eponine?"

She finally gets it, and is disgusted, "I don't want your money, sir," she tells him, trying to leave again.

"Eponine," his voice stops her, "How much?"

She really needs the money, but she could never do this. Never fuck her best friend's friend, a man she barely ever talks to, in the middle of an abandoned parking lot. It just wouldn't be right. She knows Enjolras, knows his beliefs and as much as she needs it, she can't take his money. She can't.

But his eyes are imploring and finally she sighs and answers him. She is too exhausted to fight, "One hundred an hour. Cash. I'll do anything." The words slip unwillingly through her lips.

He raises a brow and pulls out his wallet, counting out and tossing her two hundred dollars, it looks to be all he's got on him.

She bites her lip again, not to keep her teeth from chattering this time but because she doesn't know what to say, how to approach this.

She will never be able to look at him, let alone look him in the eye ever again.

"So, what will it be?" She questions the man next to her dejectedly. He surprises her once more by putting the car in drive and heading out of the lot instead of giving her one of the standard answers, "Where are we going?"

Enjolras calmly flicks his eyes over towards her, "I paid for two hours with you, I get to pick what we do, right?"

"The price goes up if you take me home," she states, chewing on her lip now, and fidgeting in her seat, "I saw your wallet, I just about cleared you out."

He shrugs, "I've got more money at home, how much is it?"

"Double."

"Deal."

He says it so smoothly, as if they're haggling over something mundane.

It doesn't take long to reach his apartment and the first thing he does is double the money in her hand.

"So what do you want to do?" He still hasn't answered her question.

"Talk," he says.

"Talk?"

He nods, taking off his coat as he goes into the kitchen, "Do you want anything?"

She follows him in there and replies in the negative, "You just paid me eight hundred dollars to talk."

"Yes," he states, popping leftover lasagna into the microwave.

"You could do that for free you know."

He stares at her for a while before he shrugs and the microwave beeps, "I'm just stupid, I guess."

Despite her protests he fills a second plate with lasagna and hands it to her before pouring them both a glass of water.

"What do you want to talk about?" She asks him.

"Anything."

She gives him a look as she's trying to inhale this delicious food.

He chuckles, "How about, if you could do anything, what would you do?"

"You want to talk about my dreams and aspirations?" She raises a brow at this. This is what he paid her for?

"Yes."

She shrugs and opens her mouth, and lets her deepest wishes fall from her lips, as if they've been waiting on the tip of her tongue for someone who cares enough to listen so they can spring forth and be heard.

She tells him more than she's told even Marius.

This man who is merely an acquaintance to her, who pays four hundred dollars to talk to a poor slut for two hours and she wonders just what about him makes him so special that she'll spill her guts out to him when she's usually so closed off.

In the end, when she is on her way out the door, he grabs her arm again, "Come here tonight, before you go out to make your rounds, okay?"

She nods and leaves, heading back out into the cold, cruel world and leaving the warmth of Enjolras' apartment behind her.

The next night she shows up at his place around nine, she had to take a beating for Azelma so she was running a little later than usual. He opened the door and ushered her in. Without preamble he handed her a wad of bills.

"What's this?"

"Eighteen hundred. Cash."

"I don't understand."

"Well, we talked about you this morning," he reasoned, "Tonight we talk about me."

"This is a lot of money, Enjolras," she's trying to keep her hands from going numb. She does not want to drop all this money and as much as she wants it she will not keep it, it is too much.

"My parents are rich," he says by way of explanation, his voice filled with bitter hatred, "it's not like this money is going to go to better use, anyway."

She senses unresolved issues but does not go into it. She is also still unwilling to take the money but Enjolras is set in his ways, taking it from her and placing the wad in her pocket.

"Now," he continues, "I think we'll have some pasta for dinner, sorry for all the Italian dishes, I'm just really into them, but if you want something else tomorrow, let me know."

She follows him dazed, wondering what this man is really about.

Before long this becomes a habit between the two and Eponine stops charging him so heavily after her father beats her, asking if she has a pimp whoring her out, if she has become a high end hooker and is planning on leaving them, calling her a bitch among other names.

She has long since gotten used to it.

She lies in the gutter one night about two months after she stepped in front of Enjolras' car. Her father gave her a particularly brutal beating that day and she wonders what happened to the kind, loving father she used to know. She wonders if anyone will miss her. If Enjolras will miss their nightly talks about their lives, politics and whatever other random things that come to mind. She will miss him.

She wishes she could tell him the millions of things she never got to say but it's so cold and she's getting tired and it hurts to breathe. She wants the pain to end.

Just as she's about to close her eyes, she sees dozens of snowflakes drifting down towards her and she smiles because she really does love the snow.

His comforting voice telling her it will all be okay is the last thing she thinks of before allowing herself to float into the warm embrace of darkness.

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_I was planning on writing the next chapter of __The Decade__ but plot bunnies were eating my soul so I wrote this instead (I'm sorry). It's loosely based off of Ed Sheeran's "The A Team" (otherwise known as the song I've been singing all week) and I thought the lyrics were perfect for Eponine so I wrote this._

_Also, sorry for any incorrect facts and stuff. I'm not really sure on how much Eponine would make._

_Let me know your favorite/least favorite parts. Reviews are welcomed with open arms._

_Well now I'm off to write the next chapter for __The Decade._


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